Scarlet Ink
by kotokodainetohru
Summary: Hermione is at a crossroads and is forced to confront an old foe. ONE SHOT


**A/N: This was written for** **Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) Defense Against the Dark Arts Term 3 Assignment 2. I honestly am I quite pleased with it. Minimum word count for the assignment was 400 words, and I expected to get around 700-1000 when I planed out what I wanted to write but I have nearly 2000!  
**

 **If anyone would like me to elaborate on any of the symbolism or explain anything else I'd be happy to in a PM.**

 **Happy reading！**

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Scarlet Ink

In the seven years that Hermione Granger had attended Hogwarts (eight really, because of all that bother with hunting down a crazy man's bits of his soul), she had faced at _least_ seven times her fair share of scary things, even when taking into consideration that until her eleventh birthday, she hadn't even known things like werewolves _existed._ She had stood - well, not always brave, but at least always defiant - to trolls, dragons, crazy black-haired bitches with cursed knives, centaurs, giants, an astronomical amount of homework and study and research, dark curses, best friends absolutely _determined_ to kill themselves flying about on wooden _brooms_ , for Circe's sake, bigoted pureblood arseholes, a bloody Basilisk and, of course, Lord Voldemort (technically that had been Harry, but she'd been quite instrumental in helping him to get there, if she may say so herself).

So, why in the name of Merlin, Morgana le Fay and Godric bloody Gryffindor was she sitting in Molly Weasley's kitchen trembling with the last remnants of terror coursing through her veins?

"Now dear, I want you to wipe that face off! There's not a thing to be ashamed of. Why, even I have trouble getting rid of the odd boggart now and then, and I've got thirty years on you and an entire other Wizarding War!" Molly's voice was bossy and the words came tumbling out of her – she was babbling in the only comforting way the woman knew – but her hand was soft and slow, caressing Hermione's unruly hair.

The younger witch groaned, and she dropped her head onto her folded arms. "Mrs. Weasley, you've never been reduced to a useless mess by a piece of _paper_."

"Call me Molly." the woman responded reflexively. She stood to fetch some more biscuits and to pop the kettle on again. Molly had powerful magic and was a veritable force of nature, but she was an _English_ witch, and she believed there were very few things that couldn't be solved by a nice strong cup of tea and biscuits.

"I think you're looking at this wrong, dearest. This boggart doesn't mean you're afraid of receiving a Troll in _exams_. You received ten OWLs, and eight NEWTs. I think you are not accepting that there is more to this." Nothing about the motherly witch's voice had changed, but Hermione could feel that this had become a serious conversation, far past the other incidents when Hermione had been faced with the creature. This was more than just brushing away Hermione's tears and distracting her.

Hermione mumbled something incoherent, placating words, words that Hermione herself didn't believe. Before Molly could turn around with that fresh pot of tea, the young woman had disappeared upstairs.

Molly Weasley had given birth to seven children, but she was Mother to at least a dozen more, and every time someone new appeared in her doorway, the matriarch began the process of 'adopting' them into the family. She had seen heartbroken women, stubborn men, infatuated young girls, equally infatuated young boys, and troubles from Hogsmead to Diagon Alley and back. And Molly knew when one of her children had to do something alone, as much as she hated it.

Hermione had to face this alone.

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Up in the room that had always been hers, Hermione's mind raced. She was the smartest witch of her generation. She knew what was happening. She _knew_ why this boggart had been able to terrify her now. Every time she ran into one, she knew why. She'd alwaysknown why. Even back in third year, during Professor Lupin's – Remus' – final, she knew it was more than just about grades.

Her eyes drifted to the closet, where just the tiniest bit of white silk and lace was peeking out between the doors. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever owned. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever wear.

She refused to acknowledge the other thing on her mind, and found it much easier to do so as no physical evidence existed… yet.

She thanked every god ever imagined and every powerful wizard and witch in history for that because it was the most terrifying thing she'd ever encountered, and that included the sudden appearance of a bloody _three-headed colossal dog_ at the mere age of eleven.

* * *

 _This isn't masochism_ , Hermione told herself as she stood in front of yet another box she'd yet again requested from her old boss in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. This time it was Ron standing there with her, ready to step in and disable the boggart as Harry, Bill, Luna, and Molly had done for her before.

"'Mione… are you sure?"

She drew in a deep breath and merely nodded her head. It was absurd. It was just a bloody boggart! How was she supposed to call herself a witch, a damn war hero, if she couldn't face a boggart? Fourteen year old _children_ regularly faced them without blinking an eye, for Merlin's sake!

It was mortifying that all of her friends and family knew she wasn't strong enough to do this, and really, how long until it got out to the press? She could see the headline: **WAR HEROINE NOT SO HEROIC** or **SMARTEST WITCH OF OUR AGE A FRAUD?**

It'd be one thing, she reasoned, if the boggart chose the shape of something she had still yet to reconcile herself to. Perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange's mad face, with spittle flying as she screamed and hefted the cursed blade Hermione had encountered years before. Or Umbridge's cursed quill, forcing her to write some awful line over and over as she had done to Harry. Or even Rita Skeeter convincing her entire family that she was nothing but a gold-digging whore, as she once had tried. These were fears Hermione could understand, could reconcile herself with being unable to beat.

But a bloody failed exam? At almost 27 years old, you'd think a woman could get over _that_.

Ron shuffled over to the shuddering box, his worried eyes still on the witch, who was gripping her wand with barely concealed panic. She never should have agreed to Ron's presence here today. This was going to end catastrophically. Every possible outcome raced through her head as she stared in front of her, and as Ron lifted the latch to release the monster, Hermione felt her chest squeeze, felt the blood in her head beating like the sound of hippogriffs racing through a field. He was going to leave her, he was going to think her weak, he would never speak to her again, she'd have to do this all alone, he – .

And then the boggart was free, and Ron was leaping out of the way, behind the box it had been contained within, and within moments, the creature had become a blank square, with nothing written on it but a violently red T, the ink dripping down the page sickeningly reminiscent of blood.

She shuddered, unable to tear her gaze from the page, the contrast of the scarlet against the pure white shocking to her oxygen deprived brain. Suddenly, her vision hazed over and she no longer saw the failed exam but instead she saw herself standing alone in white silk and lace, surrounded by blood red roses, and she saw a child with uncontrollable red hair, lying face down in the snow, surrounded by those same red roses. She saw all her family, all the people she loved beyond measure staring at her with red eyed fury. She saw herself destitute, fired from her job that she loved.

Ron watched as the woman he loved, the woman he would do anything to protect, slowly shut down, her eyes wide with terror, terror he hadn't seen on her face in years. His eyes creased together in confusion. He had heard from Harry and the others that it was awful watching Hermione put herself through this over and over. He had known the shape the boggart took, but he had expected it to… he didn't know, change or something. Instead, the blank white sheet was eerily still, just waiting for the woman to collapse, and Ron knew she soon would.

This was insane. He knew she wanted to face this herself, or whatever, but he'd rather have a Horcrux around his neck again than watch Hermione slowly fall to pieces. She needed him.

He quickly disillusioned himself, hoping that would fool the boggart long enough for his witch, his _fiancée_ , to do what she needed to do.

Hermione could hear people screaming obscenities at her, a child wailing in the background, a girl shouting that she hated her. She could feel the bite of a perpetually cold home, the tug of a small child on her skirt pleading for food, the crushing loneliness of banishment from everything and everyone she'd ever loved, the soft touch of the love of her life's hand in hers… what?

The sensations of everything she had ever and would ever fear could not block out the feeling of Ron's hand. She could feel the warmth, the support, the _love_. Her knowledge of reality slowly grew in an ever widening circle around the awareness of their joined hands, as if his hand were siphoning away the horrors.

Clarity was sudden. In a burst of strength, Hermione lifted her wand hand, and with venom rarely heard from the witch she spat out, " _Riddikulus"_. The couple silently watched as the red ink turned to flame and the paper turned to ash.

Ron silently used _Finite_ to dismantle his disillusionment, but kept his other hand in Hermione's. She was staring at the pile of ash, a wary look in her eyes, but the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

"Er – 'Mione, I think you're meant to turn it to something funny, not, well, decimate it." Ron was trying to keep himself from trembling. She was silent, and silent Hermione was so rarely a good thing. Was she angry he hadn't let her face it alone? Was she still petrified of the –quite obviously, he thought – dead boggart?

He gulped and turned to look at her, "Hermione, I – "

She grabbed his head, just under his ears and wrenched him down, crashing her lips onto his. He foggily heard their wands clatter to the floor as her hands moved to the back of his head, gripping his hair as if it were a life force. Her mouth moved desperately against his, begging him to understand, begging him to accept her gratitude, her love. He responded, if not immediately, enthusiastically, running his tongue over her lips, groaning as her own tongue darted out to brush over his. His hands found themselves at the small of her back, holding her body close, which now trembled with something completely separate from terror.

They tried to express themselves through the kiss, as only those desperately in love can. Time stopped as they clung to each other, hoping to finally be able to communicate to each other what they felt, what they wanted, what they needed.

Hermione just as suddenly tore herself away from Ron as she'd flung herself at him. His hands remained on her hips, his fingers just barely brushing the skin exposed by her ratty second hand jumper. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes held something he couldn't quite identify. Slowly, she reached down to grasp his right hand, and moved his palm up and under her jumper until it rested on her abdomen. He looked into her eyes in confusion.

"Ronald, I'm pregnant."

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 **And that's all folks! I hope you all enjoyed it. I think it's important for people to come to their own conclusions while reading but if you really want an explanation for anything (I purposely left some things a bit vague) I'd be happy to have a chat. I will say (because I'm rather proud of this little bit) that all readers should remember that Hermione and Ron's daughter is name Rose.**


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